


Feeling Big

by Bdonna, molo (esteefee)



Series: Big One [3]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, Kinks, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, zine story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-10
Updated: 2006-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bdonna/pseuds/Bdonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I think Blondie might be onto me.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the incredibly talented [Sonja](http://www.false-colors.net/indexx.html) (Bdonna).

  



	2. Feeling Big

I think Blondie might be onto me.

Today we were on lunch break at Fat Burger (boy, does he hate that place) and after the counter girl (this tiny little thing with huge boobs) gave us our order and I started chowing down, he gave me this look and said, "Some rack on her, huh?"

Now, Hutch never says crap like that about chicks. I always used to be the one making comments and getting lectures from him about 'objectifying women's bodies' blah blah blah.

So he really just said it to see if I would automatically agree. And, under that, what he really was asking was, "You miss it?"

And the plain truth is, yeah, I do miss it, but not like he meant. At least, not like I think he thinks I do: that I miss women's parts.

I like a good boob as much as the next guy who's recently started screwing his partner into the mattress in the privacy of his bedroom (really, _really_ have to get Hutch to expand our territory a little), but it's not that I miss snatch, particularly.

It's just that lately, since we started messing around a couple of months ago, I've been realizing how different it is to always be making it with someone who's bigger and stronger than you are.

Just for example: do you have any idea how weird it is for me that I have to look _up_ at him to kiss him?

Not that Hutch is _that_ much taller or bigger or stronger. I mean if we were to get in a knockdown, drag out, no-holds-barred kinda deal, I think could take him. Maybe. But he's not smaller than me by any stretch.

And, anyway, when we're in the sack we're not fighting—at least not by the usual definition. At first, it really turned me on, how I could be as strong or as rough as I wanted to be in bed, and Hutch could handle it. He ain't fragile. But that's the point: sometimes I miss feeling, well, _masterful_.

Before you get that look in your eye and think you know the story, let me just say that _both_ Hutch and I pitch and catch on this team, and it's roughly the same percentage, too, although there are some times when I wanna fuck him and he's just not ready for it, for some reason (we haven't talked about it). But then we wind up doing something else that's just as good, so no big deal.

No, by 'masterful' what I mean is when you're with a girl and she's all small and helpless in your arms and you're feeling so big around her and in her. In _complete_ physical control, in other words.

Huh. I just got an idea.

Hutch is slow eating his fish burger, which is such a disgusting concept, anyway, that I'm not surprised he's having trouble finishing it. I didn't respond to his comment about the 'rack' on the counter chick, but I don't think he's really worried. He knows how hot I am for his bod. Haven't I used my tongue on enough of it?

We get back into the Torino and get rolling. The weather has finally broken and it's a perfect day out. Of course, that means that all the punks and dealers and low-lifes who've been hiding out hunched next to their secondhand air-conditioners are now free to walk around Bay City committing crimes.

But not on _our_ beat.

Hutch is the first one to spot something, a junkie by the name of Carlo we've had to pull in before. He's walking that stupid 'don't mind me I'm not about to go commit a crime' walk that Hutch and I can peg at about a hundred yards. Something about the hunch of the neck and the too-casual stride. Anyway, Carlo turns a corner and I edge the Torino right up to it so we can peek down the alleyway. The hype is talking to some big guy with five o'clock shadow so dark he looks like Bluto from Popeye. So that's how I immediately tag him in my head.

Hutch gives me a look and we both get out and keep to the side of the alley and approach them. The blockheads are so engrossed in their transaction that they don't even notice us until we're ten feet away and flashing our badges. Then Bluto sees us and pushes something into Carlo's hand. Carlo jumps and drops it, and then we're there. Hutch bends down to pick it up, whatever it is, and he's still bent over when he flips it to me _fast_ , like it's a hot potato. So I know, even before it hits my hand, that it's H.

"Interesting pals you got, Carlo," Hutch says, and Bluto flashes Carlo a mean look that says he thinks he's been set up. "All your friends give you such _nice_ presents?" Hutch asks.

You'd have to know Hutch real well, like I do, to get why, but the tone of his voice on that word, 'nice,' pretty much sends chills up my spine.

We get the guys cuffed and into the Torino (man, Bluto's breath stinks something awful) and take 'em to Metro and book 'em. Hutch volunteers to move them down to lock-up, and I don't say anything, even though I know he just wants an opportunity to take Carlo aside and talk to him about getting the monkey off his back. I know it's a waste of time, but it's just one of the things that makes him so damned…Hutch. But it takes something out of him, every time. Sure enough, when he comes back up he looks really thoughtful, and a little tired out, and so I offer to make him dinner.

By that, of course, I meant I would spring for delivery. I take Hutch back to my place and he immediately hops into my shower as if he needs to wash the day off his skin. While he's in there I order, and then clean some dishes so that when the _moo shu_ gets here we won't have to wait around before digging in.

Sometimes it's hard keeping up with him.

Not that it ain't fun trying.

But I want to talk to him first, let on what I'm after—the idea that came to me this afternoon—and see if he'll go along with it. Because I sure the hell can't just up and whip out a rope and hog-tie him like a bronco when the time comes. But that's what I want: to have him at my mercy.

Shit, even just thinking about it is making me hard. Thinking of Hutch, all helpless and tied up underneath me, unable to move, as I _do_ all sorts of _things_ to him….

I better talk to him. Now _._

"Hutch," I say, and my voice is all foggy, so he looks up real quick. If he were a hound his ears would've swiveled at me.

"That girl today…I wasn't checking out her rack," I say, going at it from the side.

His eyes look kinda disbelieving, so I try to explain, "You think I miss making it with girls—"

"You don't have to, you know," he interrupts me, his voice all solemn, and I know he's been thinking about it, and he's about to make some grand gesture in his usual mope-headed, self-sacrificing way. Only I don't want that. I want _him._ And I sure the hell don't want to open the door on _Hutch_ getting a roving eye, either. No way. So I shut him up quick.

"Don't even think about it," I say. "That's not why I brought it up." And he sits back again, and waits, and I notice the tension leaving his face.

Idiot.

"I don't miss girls, Hutch. But there's one thing about them.…"

He gives me this sardonic look, and I resist the urge to throw something at him, something sharp and heavy. I mean this is hard enough without him making fun of me. I didn't even realize how tough it would be to talk about this stuff.

"What I miss…it's something _you_ can give me."

There, that's a good start, and Hutch's imaginary hound-ears have rotated forward again, like he's rarin' to go fetch the ball as soon as I put it in the air. So I do.

"I miss being in total control. You know, physically." And then I feel my face turn bright red, worse than Superman's when Mr. Mxyztplk used the magical red Kryptonite on him.

Hutch's mouth opens and then he closes it again and swallows. "What did you-did you have in mind?" he finally asks me.

So, that's it. I've gotta come out and say it.

"I wanna tie you up."

Hutch looks down, and it's hard for me to tell what he's thinking at that second, which is probably why he did it. His folds his hands together, and then I see him rub one of his wrists. Thinking about it? My cock makes a bid for my zipper at the idea. Tie him down, have my way with him. My head gets a little muzzy.

"Okay," Hutch says finally, and he sounds nervous, but I can dig it, I would be, too. But I know he trusts me. I'm just surprised because it sounds like it's one thing he hasn't tried.

I smile to myself.

"Okay, then," I say.

"N-now?" he asks me, and his voice is really thick. I notice his ears have turned pink.

"No time like the present," I say, and my voice is gone all funny, too. Why is that, I wonder, that when your blood really gets going your voice gets husky? But then I abandon the line of inquiry, because Hutch is heading toward the bedroom, and my dick is trying to up and follow him without the rest of my body.

I get up quick and join him there. Hutch is already taking off his shirt, but when he reaches for his belt buckle I say, "Leave it on. I wanna do the rest." And I do, I wanna do _everything._ My heart is doing the flim-flam in my chest, and my hands are sweaty. I go to my bed stand and take a tube of lube from the drawer, setting it on top, and I give Hutch a look to make it clear what my plans are. Hutch just closes his eyes for a second.

Really gonna have to ask him why it's still so hard for him. One of these days.

I reach into my back pocket where my cuffs are hooked, and then I motion to Hutch for his. He hands them over to me slowly.

"Okay to use these?" I ask, thinking I should offer to use something else, but I really want the cuffs. For one thing, I don't really know the first thing about tying a secure knot—that's more Captain Sea Scout's area of expertise. And it would be real embarrassing to have to stop and ask him for advice; or, worse yet, to have him wriggle free in the middle of a really hot scene. And for another, cuffs will be faster. And then, I think, every day when we're on the job and I reach for my cuffs, maybe I'll get a little zing.

Hutch nods okay about the cuffs, still standing there looking a little lost. It's really a change to see him uncertain about a sex thing. I decide it's time I take the lead.

I walk up to him and kiss those full lips of his. "Get on the bed, babe," I say, and give him a little push. He goes over to the bed and lies down in the middle, his arms down by his sides. His eyes are on the cuffs as I kneel beside him.

"You sure you're okay with this?" I ask him, and he nods and lifts his hands to my face, stroking my cheeks between his palms. I turn my face and plant a kiss in his right hand, and then…then I take those big wrists of his and I close the cuffs on them—first the one, then the other, the ratcheting clicks sounding really loud for some reason. Only a couple of clicks, because his wrists really are thick, and I don't want to pinch him.

I'm breathing a little hard.

I take the second pair and lift his hands over his head, watching the play of muscles in his chest as the position stretches him up. God, he's beautiful. Sometimes I wonder what the hell he sees in me. I even dropped a hint about it once, and he just made a face like I had to be kidding, and then kissed me silly.

I close the one cuff on the part that joins the two on his wrists, and then I get his hands positioned by the brass of the bedstead. My own hands are shaking a little as I fasten the second cuff around the rail that travels between the uprights. I drop the key on the end table.

Hutch is secured.

I look down and see he's staring at my face as if he's memorizing it, and when I lean down and close my eyes and kiss him, his lips move fast against mine, kind of crazy. So I guess he's getting into the spirit of this thing, now.

When I open my eyes again his are still wide and fixed on my face; he was kissing me with his eyes open. For some reason that makes my nuts burn. Well, I'm hot all over, at this point. I have his huge, blond body at my mercy, now.

I settle on the bed next to him and put my hand on his chest. He's breathing quick and light, and his eyes are closed. I play with his nipple and fluff the hair in his armpit, teasing him, before I run my hand all the way up his bicep and forearm, feeling the strength beneath the skin, until my hand reaches the cuffs.

 _So_ hot.

I run my hand back down, this time on the inside of his arm, trailing the backs of my fingers against him, and Hutch jerks when I reach his inner elbow, and his muscles turn to iron.

"No." It's a whisper, and for a second I don't even understand him, I'm so deep into the fantasy.

"No," he says again, and this time I hear him and I jolt out of it just as his whole body shudders and the cuffs start clicking against the brass, jittering and chattering like teeth.

"Off. Off. Get 'em off," Hutch says, and he starts tugging.

"Okay, okay, babe," I say quickly and get up fast and go for the key, but I'm so nervous I knock it off the table and, oh God, I'm on my knees next to the bed trying to reach it where it fell into the gap between, and the bed is _moving_ , now, Hutch is fighting against the cuffs. It's a nightmare.

"Take it easy, Hutch. Hang on!" I say frantically, and I finally get the key between my fingers and I stand up and reach for his wrists, but they're shifting too much for me to get the key in the lock, and Hutch is moaning and yanking his hands away.

"Please! Please stop _moving,_ Hutch," I beg, but it's like he doesn't even hear me, and I can't fit the key in, it slips uselessly across the smooth metal, so I try for the other set, the ones on his wrists, but they're sliding back and forth on the rail, so I end up having to kneel directly on Hutch's forearms to trap 'em still and finally, finally I get the key in first on one, then the other, and turn it and flip them open.

As soon as I pull back he's torn his hands free of the cuffs and he rolls away.

"Jesus," I whisper, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach, and I can see Hutch's body is shaking. He swings his legs off the bed and sits facing away, his hands in his lap.

There's this fucking ugly moment—the first one like it that I've ever had—where Hutch is hurting and I'm actually _afraid_ to approach him. I mean, I'm the cause of this hurt, so how can he want me to make him feel better, even if it's the thing I want most to do at that second—to wrap him up tight in my arms and ease him out of the bad place.

He says, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I thought I could handle it." His voice is shaky and weak.

And I realize then that he _knew_. He knew he might not be able to deal, but he went with it anyway, and suddenly I'm mad, really pissed because, essentially, he set me up to hurt him.

But then he whispers, "I thought, it's been so many years…it's just…it was on my mind today—because of the bust, I think—and all of a sudden I could feel it again. The needle. And I couldn't get _free_."

 _Oh, God_. I go and sit next to him. Not too close, because he's still stiff as a board and, truth: I really couldn't take it right now if he were to flinch away from me. I look down where he's rubbing his wrists in his lap and, fuck, they're all bruised and the skin is rough and red—not bleeding, but it makes my throat hurt that I did that to him.

When I think I can say it without yelling, I ask, "Why, Hutch? Why didn't you _say_ something? Why did you go along with it? Jesus."

He puts his hands up to his face and mumbles, "I wanted to give you what you needed," sounding like it's the absolute end of the world that he couldn't. And I realize, again—I'm always surprised by this—that no matter how big and strong and tough Hutch can be, he just _isn't_ , when it comes to me. When it comes to me, he's nothing but a big softie.

Finally I can move closer and I put my hand on his forearm, stroking it a little, feeling the almost-invisible hair there under my fingers. "Lemme see your wrists," I say, and he drops his hands and lets me hold 'em and look at 'em. Not too bad—no broken skin, just some tracks of red under the surface. And they're bruised, of course. I resist the urge to kiss them, because first I have something to say. Something I shouldn't really need to say, but when it comes to dumb blonds, sometimes you have to spell things out slowly. And in very small words.

"What I _need_ , you big dummy, is you. You've always given me everything I _need._ " And I know he hears me, because he sighs a little and his shoulder tilts against mine. I say, picking up steam, "This was just something I _wanted_ , Hutch. A yen. Tomorrow it will be a pork chimichanga smothered in mole sauce. You can get me _that._ "

He gives the smallest snort.

But I'm not finished, because I'm still mad that he let me _hurt_ him. "Don't _ever_ do that to me again. Don't let me hurt you. Because that's really not what I need."

And he nods silently, but he still hasn't looked at me, and he whispers, "Let me do something for you? Love you?" And I know why he's asking, he wants to make it up to me for ruining it, maybe use that incredible mouth of his in some weird act of penance.

But that's not what I want. For one thing, my hard-on had deflated faster than a whoopie cushion under an elephant's ass when this whole damned thing had gone so terribly wrong.

For another, what I need is to make him feel better, to love him good and make up for the hurt he'd, dammit, made me cause him.

And it suddenly occurs to me that I can still get what I wanted, in the bargain.

He's already reaching for me, a hand moving up my knee to my thigh, but I say, "No." And his hand stops dead, but I put my own over it.

"I _need_ you to lie back down, Hutch."

And I know he heard me stress the word, because right away he scoots back and stretches out on the bed.

"Put your arms out to the sides," I say, and he does, hands spread and palms up. It still hurts me to see his wrists like that, so the first thing I do is hunch over him and kiss them better, the best I can, and he starts to move his hand to ruffle my hair and I say, "No. Don't move."

I look up to see what he thinks about that. His eyebrows are crunched up like they get, and the divot between them is working overtime, but then he opens his eyes and when he sees my face, it all clears up for him. He starts to say something, but I say, "Shh." And he shuts right up.

Good. I won't have to explain. I don't want to. Truthfully, I find it pretty exhausting, talking about shit. I'd much rather just do. So I start working on his chest, on those tiny nipples of his that I can never get enough of. They're real sensitive and usually he can't take too much attention there, but this time I just keep going, licking them and sucking them, rubbing my thumbs over them until they're stiff for my tongue and lips to play with. I turn my head to the side and fit my molars over one, squishing it between the flat edges of my teeth, and he starts breathing hard and rough.

I lift my head. "You can make noise if you want," I say casually, and go back to it, and he lets out a soft moan, that whispery one he has that always raises the hairs on my neck and makes my balls tingle. After a while he starts to squirm and I give him a warning touch to the shoulder, pressing him down, and he lies still again.

Finally, when I've had my fill (and by now the man is sweating), I move down to his stomach and give his belly button some serious investigation, tasting the crinkles and folds (he's an outtie. I asked him once what makes outties versus innies and we had about ten minutes of extremely interesting conversation about it, with me asking him stupid questions and him getting more and more frustrated with me, until he finally caught on that I was yanking his chain) and licking it over and over, trying to make him squirm, but he holds firm. My chin presses against his waist, and he whimpers a little. His cock is a rock hard pole rising straight up along his zipper line, and I know if I just lift the waist of his pants I'll find the head there, already wet. But I don't.

Instead, I sit up and pull his shoes and socks off, and then peel his pants down really slow, leaving them around his knees.

His boxers are white, so bright against the light tan of his skin, and for a second I just sit and stare.

Hutch's arms are still out to the sides as I had directed, his palms up and his elbows slightly bent. Some of his hair has fallen over his face but, although it must be bugging the shit outta him, he hasn't moved to brush it back.

I lean down to do it for him, letting my hands run through the softness, and he looks grateful. When my palm runs over his cheek, he moves his lips against the base of my thumb, but that's all he moves. His eyes are locked on mine.

My heart goes ka-thump, and now my cock is really getting interested, so I pull away and say, "Raise your legs," and I pull his pants off of him, and then his shorts.

His cock is standing at full attention, and I know how bad he wants me to touch it. As bad as I want to, I hold off. Instead, I bend his legs and say, "Grab your knees, babe." He does it so quickly his knees crack.

Then he's open to me, and I lie down with my face right at his crotch, and start licking his nuts.

Most of the time I don't pay that much attention to his balls, except when I give 'em a good roll when he's about to come. But I have all the time in the world, now. I sit there and lick 'em and suck 'em and squeeze 'em, loving the texture of the skin in my mouth. I try to fit both of them in at once, like he does me, but they're just a little bit too big. So I use my hand on one, massaging it while I suck the other one in and find the hidden treasure with my tongue.

He's moaning again, singing for me with that thick voice of his, and his cock keeps twitching, but it's the only part of him moving; and, anyway, he can't control it, so I forgive him.

I treat his balls like all-day suckers, working the loose flesh and the prizes inside. Hutch's balls are real pink, and not very hairy at all, so I can really feel the texture under my tongue. The noises he's making are adding to my enjoyment, and the dribbling of his cock. By now there's a small pool of pre-cum collecting on his belly, so I think I'll have to go back and re-visit the area.

Hutch's thighs are trembling by my cheeks, but I'm not near done with him. Next I work below, pressing my closed mouth on the smooth skin and traveling up and down. He smells great down here, musky and Hutchy, yet clean, and I get real ambitious, because I start licking him lower and lower, and when I get close to his asshole he lets out this squeak, like someone just stepped on a hamster.

So I start licking his asshole.

Hutch makes another strangled noise and I begin to really get into it, working my tongue around it then over it, stroke stroke stroke, lick lick lick, and he's practically crying up there, his moaning won't stop, and his thighs start to really shake, and then I let the tip of my tongue slip just inside, and I swear from the sounds coming out of him he's getting close to coming, and I haven't even laid a hand on his dick.

It's good information to have, and I file it away in the drawer marked, "How to make Hutch insane," next to the card that reads, "Eat a chili dog for breakfast across the desk from him, and then wash it down with yesterday's coffee."

I spend a long time there, and his asshole starts clenching and relaxing around my tongue, over and over, these quick little flexing movements, and I know he can't control that, either, and it gives me such a rush that my cock jerks in my pants, and I know I'd better stop.

I raise my head and look at his face from between his legs. His eyes are squeezed up tight like he's being slowly eviscerated, and the cords are standing out on his neck (another thing I love about him is that knot of veins right by the moles on his neck. Sometimes I get torn between sucking one and licking the other).

His arms are starting to shake, and I say, "You can let go of your knees."

He does, and sighs, and there's this flush on his chest, like all his blood is there, only I look down at his huge, dripping cock, and I know at least part of the supply is invested elsewhere.

I get off of the bed and I say, "Put your arms out to the side and spread your knees."

His eyes open and stare upward, looking completely dazed, but he does as I say, sprawling wide across the bed. I think 'mine, all mine,' and I can't believe it, that I am so in control of him that he would spreadeagle for me like that, like…well, like a whore, really. Like a big, beautiful, blond whore, but only for me.

I start to strip really fast, yanking my clothes off as quickly as I can, and then I go over to the side table and pick up the lube.

When I crawl between his spread thighs his eyes finally track down to me. He looks at the lube that I'm smoothing onto my fingers and there's something in those eyes, something so deep. But it's not hidden from me. Nothing's hidden from me, right now, and I see, finally, that _that's_ what makes it so hard for him. The past half-hour of me loving him so damned patiently and thoroughly has had the same effect as fucking him, only this time I'm not too wiped (as I usually am) to see it.

He's wide open.

And I should know, better than anyone, how hard that is for him, in general. It amazes me it took me so goddamn long to figure it out.

I look down at his cock, and I can't believe how big and hard it is. So before I put my fingers in him I grab it at the base and squeeze tight. He gives a little moan and his hands clench into fists and I know he knows I'm not gonna let him come for a little while yet. I rub my fingers around his asshole and then ease two of them straight in.

Sure enough, I feel his cock jerk in my hand, and he lets out a shout, but I'm gripping him too tight and it backs off. God, I'm so hot at this moment I'm close to creaming myself, and my cock is dripping as I start fucking him real slow with my fingers, sometimes sliding my thumb up to stroke the incredibly smooth skin between his ass and his balls. I keep my hand tight on his cock, and every time I rub my fingertips over his sweet spot there's this clench of his muscles after a tiny delay.

And he can't seem to stop groaning like I'm killing him.

But it's killing me, too, seeing him like this, bound so tightly by my control over him, and I take my hands away and tell him to turn over. My voice is at least an octave below the norm, and even I can hear how bad I'm wanting him right now.

Hutch opens his eyes and moves onto his hands and knees as if it's the most difficult maneuver he can handle at the moment. And maybe it is. Once he's kneeling, I push at his knees until he spreads them wider, and then I lean over his back and tug at his elbows until he rests his forearms on the mattress. Then I slide my hand from his tailbone up his spine until I can press with my palm between his shoulder blades, pushing him down, down, until at last he has to turn his head and his cheek is pressed against the mattress.

Then I sit back and lube my cock, staring down at him. His dangling balls catch my eye and I reach below him to cup their sweet weight in my palm. I love them like this, so loose and heavy in my hand, and I squeeze them gentle and his whole body shudders. I slip my thumb inside him as a test, and it goes in easy.

Then I pull away again. His body is in the perfect position, but his spine is still straight and a little tense. But as I watch, his back slowly relaxes, arching down, and the move tilts his hips so his ass rises just a tiny bit.

And I can't wait anymore.

"Hutch…" I say, real low, and I center my cock on his asshole. I'm so hard right now I won't have any problem penetrating—I think, at this point, I could drill through a cinderblock—so I let go of myself and put my weight on my hands, and then I plunge into him hard with one motion.

I get so far in, so fast, there's this split second when I feel like I'll slide right through him. It's incredible, and I groan really loud from my chest. I've never taken him so deep, so quick.

Then the muscles of his ass squeeze me hard, he's moaning underneath me, and all of a sudden I'm gone, I'm through before I can even get started, and I start fucking him, plunging in and humping and twisting my hips to get as deep as I can before I come—Jesus I start coming like a storm, and I'm yelling "God. Oh GOD," and I end up pressed up so tight and hard against his ass I can't possibly get any deeper as I shoot my load into him.

My ears are burning and my cock is still tingling and I'm shaking, when Hutch makes a sound and brings me back from wherever I was. Poughkeepsie, maybe. Or Heaven.

I know Hutch must be dying, but he still hasn't moved, and I stroke his butt once before I pull away slowly. I still can't believe how fast I came.

I want to see if I can make Hutch come even faster.

I tug his hips and turn him over onto his back, his knees up, and I can see how red his face and chest are, and I smile down into those deep blues and then lean down over his cock.

His eyes are tracking me every inch, as if trying to guide my head with his stare, but I don't need a map. I'm about to take him to fucking Heaven, to where I've just been.

As my lips near his cock he makes this small sound in his throat. I lift the shaft, barely touching him. Then I slowly close my lips over the head, but don't touch him with any other part of my mouth, just make a tight ring around the tip.

I feel his hips tremble under my hands, but he doesn't move. Before I can test his control too cruelly, I push two fingers smoothly up his ass, hitting him right on target, and let my lips and mouth and tongue fold over the crown of his cock, sucking him.

"Ahhhhhh," he says, his voice sounding weak, and then he's giving it all to me. The only thing moving is his cock, but it's jerking in my lips, pumping out his juice, and he's moaning like a tomcat as he comes and comes.

My mouth is full of him, so slippery and thick, but I stroke his magic spot with my fingers and he pulses again, yelping now, and then he's done.

Hutch takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I swallow his come and pull away. I wanna reach down and get him into a hug, but I'm practically covered in lube and come now, so I go quickly to the bathroom and clean up, then I wet down a towel and bring it with a dry one back to the bed.

He hasn't moved. And his arms are still to the sides, and I feel like an idiot. I lean over him and stroke his cheek, looking into his baby blues.

"You can move now, babe."

He doesn't say anything, just closes his eyes. But I'd seen it, the hidden thing, so painfully close to the surface, and my heart beats funny.

He seems as weak as a kitten, so I help him clean up, then drop the towels by the bed and climb in next to him, pulling the sheet over us. He moves, scooting over to be closer, and puts his arm around my waist, his face tucked between my ribs and the bed. He seems to have made himself smaller, somehow. I put my hand on his warm back, petting up and down, and I'm hoping he will say something, but I know it's pretty unlikely, with how raw he must be feeling. And I guess I am, too, because I don't say anything, either, just stroke his back slow and smooth, saying it with my hand.

I'm telling him it's okay. Not that it wasn't, before. But he doesn't have to be anything he's not. Because it's here, now, that feeling I thought I had been missing: I feel _huge_ ; so big and strong and protective, like I want to take on the whole world for him.

Funny, it's just like I feel every day.

 _Finis._

July 2005  
San Francisco, CA


End file.
